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Sunday, August 11, 2013

American in Turkey

The
call to prayer undulated from the minarets of mosques, mixing with the
burble of Turkish voices and the smell of roasting lamb rising from
various food stands. The narrow streets bustled with activity as a
crowd consisting mostly of men and a few women went about their
afternoon business. With ease, the Turkish crowd made their way around
vendors displaying their wares of cheap goods and name brand knock-offs,
while simultaneously avoided being pushed off the high curbs into the
manic vehicle traffic. The noise of honking horns as the drivers wove
between the other cars, ignoring painted lanes and most other rules of
the road, joined the other sounds of a Turkish city. Visiting Turkey at
any time would have been an amazing and wonderful experience. Visiting
this Muslim country two weeks after the Iraq war broke out added an
element of concerned wariness for travelers coming from the West,
especially for Americans.

I
was traveling with a culturally diverse team: British, Swiss, French,
Chilean, and one other American. We were in Turkey to do some work with
churches and orphanages, so we had taken the time to learn of the
cultural differences we would find ourselves immersed in. The Chilean
felt the most comfortable in this foreign land, but we all felt the
cultural shift. The team was enjoying the opportunity to learn about
the foreign culture, eat the wonderful food, and be surrounded by the
staggering amount of ancient history housed in this exotic land. The
wonders of Turkey and Turkish culture were all enjoyed, even while
playing with a lonely child in an orphanage or doing physical labor. A
day of labor had just ended and sustenance was our new priority.

We
followed our noses to find a small restaurant. It was not very
crowded, with a clientele of men ranging through the ages, from the
trendily dressed young men to the more traditionally dressed older men
playing backgammon. The women in my team were the only females in the
restaurant. The atmosphere of the restaurant was quiet and relaxed; the
various conversations were muted, the backgammon pieces clicked
quietly, and an underlying background noise coming from a small, mounted
television.

We
were just finishing our meal when there was a noticeable change in the
atmosphere of the restaurant. Brian, my fellow American traveler, and I
noticed what the television was showing about the same time. I could
feel my face pale and my body tense. I could not understand the words
that were coming from the television, but I understood the message being
said by the images showing on the screen. I was not the only one. A
Middle East news station was covering the activity of American soldiers
in neighboring Iraq.

Pictures
flashed across the small screen. Images of American soldiers with
guns, American soldiers next to dead Iraqis, and American soldiers
standing next to the rubble of Iraqi buildings paraded across the
television. Pictures of Iraqi men standing proud and Iraqi women
cowering, faces dusty and eyes wide, gave a somber contrast. The
message was clear: Americans were the invading force, the bad guys. The
Turkish men in the room had heard us talking in English; they knew we
were from the West. Brian and I visually stood out amongst this group
of mixed cultures, for we were dressed casually in jeans and sneakers, a
recognized American characteristic. We could feel the attention of the
Turks moving to our group. Whether the Turkish men recognized us as
Americans, or they saw the entire team as members of the infidel,
decadent West, I still felt the sudden pressure of being an American, a
representative of a potential enemy. Suddenly, I was not just a Western
tourist; I was an American. An American that could be considered an
enemy strictly because of the country that birthed me.

The
others in the group also noticed the television and felt the change of
atmosphere. The check was called for, and we left the restaurant as
quickly and quietly as we could. The group was somber and watchful as
we made our way back to our lodgings. What had just occurred was
quietly discussed, with Brian and I frequently exchanging glances. The
conversation did not linger long on the television broadcast, as we did
not want to dwell on the message that was being sent out to the people
that we were going to be spending the next two months with. As a group,
every effort was made to be culturally sensitive and to be aware of
what was discussed in public, all in the effort of building bridges
across cultures. While everyone we had met so far had been extremely
hospitable and friendly, we had just been put on notice that not
everyone we met during our time in Turkey would feel that way.

It
was a sobering experience, one that brought home that we were traveling
in a Muslim country shortly after America had declared war on Iraq.
While there were other events that occurred in Turkey that made my team
feel unsafe, including a bombing and the simple fact of being a Western
female, what happened in the restaurant was the only time being an
American made me feel unsafe. The fact that I was an American, not just
an Alaskan, or a foreigner, slowly faded from my immediate
consciousness, but I never forgot how I felt to be judged solely on the
basis that I was born in the United States of America.